Bring On the Rain
by Mickey3
Summary: Sometimes it seems that life just has it in for you.  Jack/Sara Pre-series  Rated T for strong language.


**Bring On the Rain**  
><strong>By Mickey<strong>

Status: Completed 4/16/2011

Pairings: Jack/Sara

Archive Permission: Ask first.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.

Word Count: 1,458

Author's Notes: Life seems to have been throwing one curve ball after another at me lately. For a while, I was really starting to let it get me down. A few days ago, I thought of a song that I really like and listened to it again for the first time in a long time. The song, and my situation, inspired this fic. The title of the fic comes from that song which is sung by Jo Dee Messina.

Dedication: For the members of the Jackfic, stargatedrabbles and littlestargate mailing lists who have offered kind words and support, and for my parents who are always here for me no matter what. Also, for anyone out there being hit hard by the current economic situation (or just by life in general). Remember, tomorrow is another day. Eventually, things will get better. You just have to hold on until then.

* * *

><p><em>It's almost like the hard times circle 'round.<br>A couple drops and they all start comin down.  
>Yeah, I might feel defeated,<br>I might hang my head,  
>I might be barely breathing, but I'm not dead.<em>

Jack mumbled a curse as Sara stormed out of the room. He really hadn't meant to snap at her again. None of this was her fault. It was just as hard, harder actually, on her as it was on him.

It had been a rough year to start with. Sara's mother had died in early September after a three year battle with breast cancer. Not even two weeks later his beloved Gramma Viola O'Neill, whom Sara had become extremely close too, had died in her sleep. They'd barely buried his grandmother when Jack's team was sent to Iran. Three months later, they lost their first child when Sara went into labor -four months early. The baby lived for two days in an incubator before finally succumbing to pneumonia. The doctor's couldn't tell them what had caused Sara to go into labor so early, which made the tragedy that much harder to deal with.

Jack was allowed to go home for the funeral. Three days after they buried his baby girl, Jack had to fly back to Iran. With her father still on a cruise ship somewhere in the middle of the ocean, Sara was left to deal with her grief on her own.

Jack didn't have time to deal with his grief. He'd used the plane ride to squeeze it into a tight little ball and shove it to the far corner of his mind where he stored all the hurts and horrible things he didn't want, or have time, to deal with.

Five weeks ago a simple mission had gone horribly wrong when his parachute had failed to open. Jack had landed, hard, in enemy territory. Nine days and nine broken bones later, he'd managed to drag himself to safety. He'd spent two weeks in a hospital in Iran before being sent to the Air Force Academy Hospital. Three days ago, he'd finally been allowed to go home. Doc hadn't been happy about him leaving, but he didn't care.

The only thing that had kept him going during his agonizing ordeal had been Sara. He knew he had to get home to her. She was still struggling to deal with the loss of their child. She needed him. He needed her. Now that he was finally home, he kept pushing away and hurting the one person he should be leaning on for support, who _wanted _to help him more than anyone else.

From the moment they'd left the hospital, Sara been patient and loving. Jack had been cold and distant.

The car breaking down hadn't helped his sour mood. Jack had lashed out at Sara for not taking proper care of the car and keeping up on the routine maintenance. She hadn't bothered to contradict him. Instead, she had simply called Triple A, had the car towed to the dealership and helped Jack into the cramped taxi she'd called to get them home.

He wasn't any better once they'd gotten home. When she brought him a drink or something to eat, he complained that it was too hot or cold or wasn't made right. When she tried to help him up so he could use the bathroom or go to bed, he got angry and told her he wasn't an invalid. For the most part, she would give a soft sigh then leave him alone. Sometimes she would stand by silently and help as much as he'd let her.

Today had been different.

All day, he could sense that Sara was upset. The stress of dealing with his injuries and attitude, as well as still trying to cope with their daughter's death was obviously weighing heavily on her. Jack could see it in her eyes, but couldn't get past his own sense of uselessness. That just made him more angry and withdrawn. He hadn't said more than two words to her all day. Even when he had, his words had been clipped, harsh.

They reached the breaking point when Sara had brought him a glass of water and a plate of spaghetti for dinner.

"Water?" Jack spat as he glanced up from his newspaper. "Damn it, Sara, I asked for a beer. Can't you even handle something that simple," he asked angrily as he glared at her.

Reasonably, she began, "You know what-"

Cutting her off abruptly, he'd screamed, "I don't give a damn what the fucking doctor said. I want a fucking beer!"

Wordlessly, she'd slammed the water and spaghetti on the table and turned to leave.

"Don't you turn your back on me!"

Sara stopped, but didn't turn around. In a defeated voice, she whispered, "She would have been three months old today."

"She's dead. You need to accept that and move on, damn it. If you hadn't been pushing yourself so hard, maybe she'd be here now."

He saw the hurt, anger and disbelief in her eyes and instantly regretted what he'd said. Sara turned and glared at him. Covering the short distance between them before he could utter a word, she slapped him as she hissed, "Bastard!" Silent tears fell as she stormed out of the living room.

Jack saw red. Ignoring the pain the sudden movement caused, he reached out, grabbed the glass and hurled it at his wife's retreating back. It slammed into the wall a few inches from her head. To her credit, Sara didn't slowdown or even flinch.

Jack had spent the past half hour mentally cursing himself out. It wasn't her fault. None of it. Not the loss of their child, or the way he'd behaved since being released from the hospital. He'd fought so hard to get home to her, and now he was doing nothing but hurting her.

Son of a bitch. He really was an ass.

Groaning, he pushed himself off the couch and barely managed to grab his crutches before he fell on his face. Breathing heavily at even that small exertion, he waited for the pain to subside before heading for the back door. By the time he reached it, he was sweating and his leg, ribs and hip were protesting loudly. For a few minutes, he made no attempt to move further. Sara had left the sliding glass door open and was standing on the patio just staring at the sky. There wasn't a cloud in site, but the weather man had predicted rain.

Sara had always loved standing in the rain -especially when life seemed to throw one curve ball after another at her.

As quietly as he could manage, he hobbled over behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. Startled, she took a step back and hit his broken leg. Biting back a curse, Jack held on tighter as she tried to pull away. Leaning closer, he kissed her neck then whispered, "I'm sorry, baby. I'm so, so sorry."

Sara said nothing, just tensed up. Jack knew she was waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop.

"I didn't mean it. God, Sara, I don't even know why I said it. Or why I've been acting like such an ass these last few days. I need you, so bad. And maybe that's why. I fought so hard to come back to you. I thought for sure I was going to die in that desert, but I fought because I knew I had to get back home to you. I don't want to lose you, baby. What happened to our baby was not your fault." At the mention of their daughter, Sara tried again to pull away, but Jack held her tight, ignoring the stabbing pain in his still healing left arm. "If anything, it was my fault. I feel so damn guilty. If I'd been here, if I had been more of a help to you, then maybe our baby wouldn't have died. Then, when the pain was still so raw, I left and went back to Iran and left you to deal with your grief alone."

Pausing, Jack let his words sink in. He hoped he wasn't blowing it. He was never very good at expressing his feelings. When Sara remained silent, Jack added, "Please forgive me, Sara. Please don't turn your back on me now. I can't get through this alone. Neither can you. You shouldn't have to. I am so sorry I." He let his words trail off. For several minutes he said nothing as he watch the sun begin to disappear on the horizon. Finally, he whispered, "Let me help you, please."

Small, fat drops of water slowly fell on them as Sara finally relaxed and leaned back into his embrace.

Leaning into her husband's thinner, but still strong chest, Sara smiled as she looked towards the setting sun and whispered, "Bring on the rain."

_THE END_

Jo Dee Messina, Bring On the Rain

_Another day has almost come and gone,  
>Can't imagine what else could go wrong.<br>Sometimes I'd like to hide away somewhere and lock the door.  
>A single battle lost but not the war.<em>

_'Cause tomorrow's another day_  
><em>and I'm thirsty anyway<em>  
><em>So bring on the rain.<em>

_It's almost like the hard times circle 'round._  
><em>A couple drops and they all start comin down.<em>  
><em>Yeah, I might feel defeated,<em>  
><em>I might hang my head,<em>  
><em>I might be barely breathing, but I'm not dead.<em>

_No, cause tomorrow's another day,_  
><em>and I'm thirsty anyway,<em>  
><em>So bring on the rain.<em>

_No I'm not gonna let it get me down._  
><em>I'm not cry,<em>  
><em>and I'm not gonna lose any sleep tonight.<em>

_'Cause tomorrow's another day,_  
><em>and I am not afraid,<em>  
><em>so bring on the rain.<em>

_tomorrow's another day,_  
><em>and I'm thirsty anyway,<em>  
><em>so bring on the rain.<em>

_No I'm not gonna let get me down,_  
><em>I'm not gonna cry.<em>  
><em>so bring on the rain.<em>

_Bring on the rain_  
><em>Bring on the rain<em>


End file.
